The background: Boho Dancer's music is so sweet yet so sad, it really should only be listened to when you're in a certain mood. If you're feeling even slightly off-colour or emotionally vulnerable, yes, it might provide comfort to know that there is someone out there - in Denmark, it transpires - who knows what you're going through. But then again, it might just push you over the edge.

"It has a melancholic Nordic vibe," admits singer Ida Wenøe of the music on Boho Dancer's debut album, Gemini. It's Scandinavian folk, whatever that means, although Wenøe has a good idea. It taps into a sadness, one that she began feeling as a child. "I don't really like to put it this way but I think I had depression as a child," she says. "I spent a lot of time alone... I put myself in my own bubble." That self-imposed isolation - and what she calls "her dark side" - strangely inspired her, out there in the countryside, in her bedroom overlooking fields. She uses the words "eerie" and "haunted" to capture the unsettling stillness she felt and that she has brought to Boho Dancer's music.

Not that it's all troubling, or if it is, it's tempered by a childlike fragility that makes the songs sound like whimsical folk for fairy tales with a sinister undertow. Her voice - weary but cute, with the power to cut through - is perfect; she sounds like the young narrator of her own magical-malevolent fantasies. In one she sings, "I'm a sensitive person and you don't like holding hands/My wings are bleeding," her vocals assuming the quality of a creature from a fable.

She formed the band with Símun Mohr and Asker Bjørk a couple of years ago, under the influence of Joni Mitchell and Leonard Cohen, Fleet Foxes and First Aid Kit. Hearing Nina Simone and seeing Patti Smith live in her teens blew her away, and encouraged her to write songs, which she uses as a form of therapy and concern ideas about overcoming difficulties and darkness, without which, she says, she "would have gone mad". She wrote a lot of the songs in a castle, which is appropriately Grimm if not grim. Some of the songs are quite breezy - Fictional Reasons could be a Cardigans album track from 1995 - but even when they are the subject matter is quite, well, distressing. Martin is an ode to a "dear childhood friend" who had a psychotic breakdown. On Epicene Wenøe imagines herself to have been a male writer or poet in another life, one who drank himself to death. It is the very essence of forlorn, and creepily blue, as though you're about to be visited by the self-same sorrows as the protagonist. Closer Waiting On A Summer Never To Come is almost too much: "I want to take off my skin," she wails towards the climax. No wonder her mother couldn't bear to hear it, assuming it was about suicide. It's actually, she says, about "wanderlust, sadness, insufficiency and paralysis". So there you go. You have been warned. Not warmed, warned.